


Reconciliation

by quietregulus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Eating Disorders, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-01 20:00:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15781071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietregulus/pseuds/quietregulus
Summary: A fun, lesser-known side effect of the Dark Lord taking up residence in your home? You lose your appetite. Maybe permanently.He'd gotten used to not eating. Sharing a house with a bloodthirsty murderer had taken away his appetite, funnily enough. Maybe it was all the lessons on torture with his killer aunt, or perhaps the suffocating anxiety of making one wrong move in front of the Dark Lord, or maybe the smell of blood that seemed to be stained in the floors and in the walls and in his nostrils, but his appetite had vanished that spring, and it hadn't come back.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, you know what's a good idea? Commit to another chaptered fic when you've already had a wip for four years.
> 
> I am not kidding when I give a TRIGGER WARNING for EATING DISORDERS/DISORDERED EATING. This fic contains graphic descriptions of several behaviors consistent with eating disorders. The last thing I want is to trigger anyone or cause a relapse. I started writing this as a way to deal with my own fucked up behaviors, not as a way to harm others.
> 
> I think I'm part of the minority that imagines Astoria with blonde hair, so if you aren't just pretend it says 'brown,' lol.
> 
> Once again, HP isn't mine.

Draco stared into the toilet.

It was repulsive. Yes, it _was_ the abandoned loo that Moaning Myrtle occupied but shouldn’t the elves clean it properly anyway? Or they could at least do a better job of it.

Lifting the seat with the edge of his shoe, he kicked it back with a _clunk_ and bent over the bowl. He exhaled shakily and brought his hand up to his mouth for what felt like the thousandth time.

Sticking two fingers in his mouth, he disturbed the uvula until he threw up the contents of his stomach. He did the same thing a few more times until only saliva and acid came up. Satisfied, he stood back up, spat into the toilet, and wiped his hands with some toilet paper.

Draco dropped the paper into the toilet and flushed, watching the partly digested food swirl out of sight.

Unlocking the stall door, he walked out and went for the closest sink to clean himself up. He first washed his hands with soap and water before rinsing his mouth and face. He turned the tap off and stared at his own reflection. The blood vessels around his eyes were popped, leaving unsightly red squiggles that stood out against his pale skin.

He tore himself away from the mirror and wiped his hands and face dry.

Draco was starting to feel better already.

* * *

 

When he walked back into the eighth-year common room, Draco returned to Pansy and Blaise. They were sat in the corner of the room, lounging and speaking to each other with their books opened in front of them.

“See, there he is,” Blaise was saying as Draco walked up to them. “You needn’t worry about him.”

Draco sat down next to Pansy, who responded by saying, “You never know, Blaise.”

“What are you two talking about now?” Draco asked, though he already had a pretty good idea.

Pansy didn’t look up at him; she was busy painting her nails a deep burgundy.

“Is this color alright? It suits me, doesn’t it?” she asked instead of answering Draco’s question.

She met Draco’s gaze now, raising her half-painted hand next to her face, modeling for the two men.

“Yes, it suits you perfectly,” Blaise answered, though he was focused on flipping through _The Standard Book of Spells Year 7_ instead of on Pansy’s nails.

Pansy huffed and turned to Draco.

“What do _you_ think?”

“It’s a nice color,” he told her.

“Thank you,” Pansy said pointedly, glaring momentarily at Blaise. She returned her attention to her nails and said to Draco, “I was just wondering what had taken you so long. I was worried some self-righteous Gryffindors had decided to take it upon themselves to dole out their idea of justice.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry Potter look up at Pansy’s words. Draco rolled his eyes, shooting a momentary glare at Potter before turning a bit so his back would be to Potter.

“That hasn’t happened in a month, and anyway, I can handle myself.”

Pansy’s eyes flickered over to Draco in annoyance.

“I’m just looking out for you, you know.”

“Yes, but I’m fine.”

Pansy opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Draco stood up. Both Pansy and Blaise looked up at him now.

“I’m going to bed.”

“Wait – “ Pansy started to say, but her words fell flat and she simply furrowed her brows.

“Good night,” Draco said flatly before turning to head up the stairs.

Draco hated the eighth-year dormitory. The tower had been newly built during the reconstruction of Hogwarts and couldn’t be more different than the dungeons. It was disorienting enough being back at Hogwarts without having to room somewhere new.

Two months into the school year and Draco still wasn’t used to the dormitory’s rounded common room that was decorated with soft armchairs, tables, and a divan. The staircases which were opposite each other – one for the boys and the other for the girls.

Though really, he should be saying men and women by now. That’s what they were, weren’t they, at the age of eighteen?

Draco scoffed to himself as he opened the door into his bedroom. He shared the room with Blaise, thank Salazar, who was as neat and organized as they came. He also kept to himself, caring more about his own affairs than anyone else’s, which was certainly useful for Draco.

It was still lit in their room and Draco sat down on his four-poster bed, relishing the silence and privacy. His habit was one that required privacy, after all. It was hard with Pansy’s watchful eye, but he was careful. He hardly went right after meals; he almost always ensures that he spends at least an hour with Pansy and Blaise after dinners before going to the loo. Lunch on weekdays was easier in that respect, with their differing school schedules and the chaos that came with the entire school bustling about.

Breakfast was the hardest to skip. The three of them always went down together, every morning without fail, and he would have to eat. With lunch and dinner, he could give excuses – class, homework, revision – but not breakfast.

Draco stood and went over to the full-body mirror that hung on the side of his wardrobe. He’d brought it from home and studied it every day.

He lifted his shirt and examined his body at all angles. He ran his free hand down his stomach, cursing himself for eating too much at dinner. He felt like there was still more food that he could get out, but it was pointless now. He’d waited much too long, and he didn’t fancy going down to Myrtle’s loo all over again anyway.

 _Fat fat fat_ was all that ran through his head as he glared at his disgusting figure.

Draco cursed under his breath, releasing the bottom edge of his shirt and walking to the front of his closet. He unbuttoned the shirt and let it drop to the ground before grabbing his pajamas and putting them on. They were looser on his body and allowed him the peace of mind that his school uniform couldn’t afford him.

He went back to his bed and went through his schoolbag, pulling out the necessary books, parchment, ink and a quill. He then pulled the curtains round his bed shut, making it his own little world.

Draco worked on his Defense Against the Dark Arts assignment for an hour before he fell asleep, the Dark Lord tainting his hazy dreams.

* * *

 

Draco woke up the next morning with a horribly sore neck. He grimaced as he sat up straight in his bed and rubbed at it, targeting the aching muscles with his fingers. He must have fallen asleep while doing his homework and ended up sleeping, curled up, in a strange position.

Slowly and carefully, he gathered his materials, still splayed out around him, and placed them back in his bag. Once he was done, Draco drew back the curtains and left his bed begrudgingly.

Another day.

Another hellish day.

Just thinking about all the hours of meaningless interaction and schoolwork and lectures made him want to go back to bed and sleep forever. Draco made his way over to his wardrobe and began picking out the clean set of clothes he would wear that day.

He passed Blaise on his way out the door, who simply glanced at him through hooded eyes – if there was ever a ‘night person,’ Blaise would be it – and headed for the bathroom.

There, Draco took a quick shower and dressed himself, avoiding the mirrors and his own body as much as possible. Once clothed, he chanced a glance at his reflection. He combed his hair with his fingers and turned his head this way and that, examining and loathing every little detail of his face.

With a scowl and a tightness in his chest, Draco left.

* * *

 

He'd gotten used to not eating. Sharing a house with a bloodthirsty murderer had taken away his appetite, funnily enough. Maybe it was all the lessons on torture with his killer aunt, or perhaps the suffocating anxiety of making one wrong move in front of the Dark Lord, or maybe the smell of blood that seemed to be stained in the floors and in the walls and in his nostrils, but his appetite had vanished that spring, and it hadn't come back.

And there was how he felt when he restricted. Airy, weightless. Disconnected – and in a good way. It was like he floated above it all; nothing mattered, not really. Just the distant emptiness within him.

When he _did_ eat, he felt nauseated, either "naturally" or through his own, fucked-up means. The feeling of food in his stomach had grown foreign to him. It had become unnatural, uncomfortable. Getting rid of it granted him some peace of mind, a sort of high, per se.  

It all sounded a bit mental, Draco knew, but once again, being housemates with the Dark Lord tended to fuck up one's mind.

* * *

 

Lessons dragged on as they always did, bleeding seamlessly together in Draco’s mind.

What was the point?

Draco had no future. He knew this. Who’d want to hire a mental ex-Death Eater? Still, his mother had pleaded with him, and when he declined, she’d forced him. He didn’t know if she was in complete denial, or if she truly believed that Draco would have a life after ~~the War~~ Hogwarts; either way, Draco had no expectations and had instead accepted his fate of isolation and unemployment.

That was, if he didn’t starve to death first.

A deep feeling of longing coursed through him at the thought. Emptiness. Nothingness. Death.

Draco almost smiled to himself, belatedly realizing just how abnormal his mindset had become. He looked up with the intention of pretending to pay attention to McGonagall, but his gaze caught on Potter, who was sat two rows up and to the left of Draco and was staring at him intently.

Once Potter had realized that Draco had caught him, however, he looked away so quickly that Draco was surprised he didn’t suffer any whiplash.

Mildly intrigued, Draco watched the back of Potter’s head for a good minute before turning his attention to his Transfiguration professor.

* * *

 

Weeks passed, then months. Draco wasn’t sure if he was losing weight – he knew he was only seeing a distorted image of himself. Still, he studied his reflection any chance he got. Touching, squeezing, grasping his skin, his _fat_.

Purging was getting easier. He knew he was also getting sloppier, though, if the looks Pansy gave him were anything to go by. Despite this, Draco found he didn’t care. What could she do, anyway? Glare at him? Huff and scoff and pout until he started eating properly and kept it in?

Not bloody likely.

* * *

 

"Fucking Pansy," Draco growled underneath his breath.

He could hardly contain his anger - his disgust - as he fled the Great Hall. He didn't even care if this was undeniable "proof" that he couldn't eat properly; he had to get rid of it.

He threw open the doors of the closest bathroom he could find and rushed into the first stall. Locking it with trembling hands, he faced the toilet and bent forward. He brought his right hand to his mouth and stuck his index and middle fingers inside. It was only a few moments until he was _retching gagging vomiting_ every last bite of dinner Pansy had forced upon him.

Draco was only satisfied when all that was coming up was acid and water. Draco stood upright again as he calmly took some toilet paper to wipe off his hands. He flushed.

He savored the disconnect he felt between the world and him after purging. Like he was truly untouchable. Above it all. It was his second favorite thing about the activity, after the emptying itself.

It was only when he looked into the mirror that he saw that his nose was bleeding. He touched a finger to it and looked down at it in slight surprise. He'd never seen that before.

After staring at it for a good minute, Draco washed his hands and face, rinsed his mouth three times, and looked at himself again.

It was like it wasn't even his body. He wasn't real. A little bit of blood had dribbled down to his upper lip again, and he wiped at it.

A red smear glared back at him from the back of his hand.

"Malfoy?"

Draco jumped and turned around.

It was Potter. Of course. Not one of his actual friends, or someone who cared about him, but Harry Potter.

The git stood stupidly at the door, his green eyes round with shock. All Draco could do was wipe his face again with the heel of his palm and smile lazily. This wasn't real. There was no reason to get upset.

"Figures you'd be here," said Draco.

"You're bleeding."

"Yes, and...?" Draco turned back around to the sink and his reflection. There was still a hint of smeared blood on his face, though it was quickly drying. He washed his hands.

"Are you alright?"

Draco eyed Potter's reflection with vague interest. What was he doing here in the first place?

"Have you been following me again, Potter?" he asked. "Have you taken it upon yourself to make sure I'm not up to anything nefarious?"

Potter ignored this and stepped closer. Draco turned back around and met his gaze - the real one. He was slowly coming back to earth, and he wasn't happy.

"What are you doing, Malfoy?" Potter asked slowly.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Draco countered.

"You…sounded like you were sick."

Draco almost smiled. "One could call it that."

Confusion was clear on Potter’s face.

"Are you ill? Why were you bleeding?"

"What, Potter, are you my mother now? I've got one of those already, thank you."

 _Unlike you_ was on the tip of his tongue, but Draco restrained himself at the last minute.

"Malfoy..." Potter took a hesitant step forward.

“Your concern is touching, Potter, but perhaps you should focus your rescue efforts on someone else. Someone who actually wants it.”

Potter looked at him, his expression grim and mouth a tight line. His eyebrows furrowed, and then he said, “You’re bleeding again.”

“Fuck,” Draco hissed to himself under his breath.

He wiped at his nose again and saw that Potter was right – another red smear.

“Why are you bleeding?” Potter asked again.

Draco was mad now. Potter’s surprise interrogation had sent him spiraling back to earth, back to reality.

“Leave me alone, Potter,” Draco muttered.

He started for the door, but Potter stood in his way. He was glaring at Draco with an intensity and irritation Draco was all too familiar with.

" _Leave me alone_. What about those words do you not understand?" Draco growled.

He became lightheaded suddenly, his body protesting against, well, everything. Draco swayed where he stood, and Potter’s tough façade fell immediately.

“Malfoy?”

He stepped closer, a hand held out like he was going to grab onto him. He must’ve thought better of it, though, because it fell away. Draco’s gaze focused on it, his mind weakly trying to make sense of what was happening. He was so dizzy.

“What – are you alright?”

Potter’s voice became distant, sounding echoey even though Draco knew very well that the man was standing right in front of him. His eyesight dimmed, became overpowered by dark dots, and then everything was black.

* * *

 

“Malfoy? _Malfoy?_ ”

Draco regained consciousness from the floor, Potter’s voice slowly coming back to full volume. He felt strange and sick, and Potter was kneeling in front of him, his eyes almost comically wide.

“Bugger off,” mumbled Draco.

Potter didn’t listen to him and stayed where he was, dark eyebrows furrowed again. Draco sat himself up wearily.

“How long was I out?”

“This has happened before?”

“Do you know or not, Potter?”

Draco rubbed at his forehead. Fucking hell of a day this was.

“Two minutes, maybe,” Potter finally answered. “Should I, er, get Madam Po-“

“No,” Draco snapped immediately, cutting Potter short. Fueled only by his anger and embarrassment, Draco stood up. He wavered for a second. “I’m fine, Potter. Fuck off.”

And without another word, Draco left the bathroom, going as fast as he could without actually running, leaving Potter gaping and still kneeling on the dirty, tiled floor.

* * *

 

Draco’s throat was sore.

The scratchy kind of sore that made him wince with every swallow, the kind that came with shoving your fingers down your throat and retching up food that was meant to stay down. But if this was the price he had to pay to feel empty, he’d pay it over and over again. And he did.

“Draco, I sincerely want to slap you right now,” Pansy was telling him.

He was in the safety of his dormitory room, the one he shared with Blaise. He had escaped Potter, but that meant he had to face someone else he’d run away from – Pansy.  

“You idiot,” Pansy seethed, glaring at him with sharp, dark eyes. “You can’t keep doing this.”

If this was any other day, he would have fought. But he was tired, and frankly, he didn’t care enough to.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Draco drawled.

He dropped down onto his bed. Crossing his arms, he looked Pansy square in the eye. She was still standing and staring down at him.

“Draco,” Pansy said sharply, “I just don’t understand. I thought – why are you still doing this? The – the War’s over. It’s almost 1999, for fuck’s sake.”

“Oh, so you’re saying now that the War is over, I can go back to my regular, normal, _pre-War life_?” he asked, emphasizing the last few words. “Thank you for the permission, Pansy. And of course, I was the picture of normalcy before it, so I’m really all better.”

“Salazar, you’re infuriating,” Pansy said between gritted teeth. Draco wondered if she would pull at her hair next. “You’re not even listening to me. I just asked _why._ Why, Draco?”

“I think it would more than what’s left of both of our family’s wealth combined in Mind Healer bills to figure that one out.”

She huffed. “Let’s start simple then. Why don’t you want to eat in the first place?”

Salazar, she really wanted to do this. She really wanted to _get to the bottom of it_. Draco looked away.

“I’m not hungry.”

“That’s fucking rubbish, Draco, and you know it,” Pansy retorted. “After all those hours – those _days_ – of not eating, you’ve got to be hungry. It’s simple fact. Try again.”

“Fine, I just don’t want to, alright?” he asked, turning his head back around to meet her stony gaze. “Now kindly fuck off, would you? I’ve had a long enough day even without Potter interrogating me before this –“

“Potter? What do you mean?”

“He saw me in the loo,” sighed Draco, rubbing at his eyes. “Asked me what I was doing.” He let out an empty laugh. “I fainted in front of him. I bet he loved that – I’m everything a poor little damsel in distress should be. Perfect for him –”

“Sorry, you _fainted_?” Pansy repeated incredulously. “Were you even going to tell me?”

Her voice was growing rather shrill now.

“It doesn’t matter, just forget it,” Draco replied, waving the question away. “The point is, all I want to do now is sleep. So just go.”

Pansy stepped forward menacingly. Draco stood up, and for a second they were face-to-face, perhaps inches apart from each other, and then Draco brushed past her to his wardrobe. He opened it, staring at its contents instead of at Pansy. The room felt several degrees cooler as Pansy stood in the same spot for several moments, and then left the room without another word. When the door slammed shut, Draco exhaled shakily. He closed his eyes and knelt his head against the wardrobe door.

It was all a mess.

* * *

 

It was a Saturday, and Draco had pretended to be asleep long enough for Blaise to leave for breakfast without him.

He waited another ten minutes before emerging from his nest of blankets. It was November and snow had fallen a few days ago, but Draco had already been cold for months.

He kept his black pajama bottoms on, figuring he had nothing to do and nobody to impress, choosing only to pull on a thick, grey sweater over his top that hid his body well.

Draco stared at his reflection with dead eyes, glowering as he focused on his swollen cheeks, the bags under his eyes, and his pale skin. It was nearly laughable just how similar this Draco was to the one of sixth year, in the midst of his mission.

He tore his gaze away from himself and pulled the door open. He ignored the growl of his stomach as he padded down the steps, crossing his arms and hugging them to his chest as he did so. Once he’d reached the bottom, Draco looked up, right into the bright green eyes of Potter.

Draco halted immediately and hugged his arms tighter to himself.

Potter was sat on the ground in front of the fireplace, lounging in a hoodie and sweatpants, his dark hair even wilder than usual. He was surprised, by the look of his face, and had expected to see Draco as much as Draco had expected to see him – that was, not at all. Potter sat up a little straighter, using the low table behind him as support for his back.

“Malfoy,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Potter.”

Draco never knew what Potter was thinking. Before, his expressions and body language were easy to read. Angry. Provoked. Smug. Those emotions were so simple. One look and Draco knew exactly what Potter was thinking, and how he could best rile him up.

Now, though, Draco would have to focus and really look at him to figure out what he was thinking or feeling. And even then, Draco would sometimes still be at a loss. It was when Potter looked vaguely blank. Not completely devoid of emotion, but almost. There was no smile, no frown, no teeth, no grimace. He’d get this look often – Draco had seen it many times over the months and it didn’t seem to matter if Potter was in class, with his friends, or by himself. He became closed off, and it was unsettling to Draco.

The confusion had now been wiped off Potter’s face; he was looking at Draco with this same, indiscernible expression.

“I saw Parkinson and Zabini walk out of here a while ago,” Potter told him.

“Alright…?”

“Are you gonna go after them?

Draco sniffed and turned away. “No.”

“They were probably heading off to breakfast,” Potter mused confidently.

“Astute deduction, Potter.”

There was something – a near-smile. And then Potter’s expression was closed-off and thoughtful again.

“Why won’t you join them?”

“Why so curious?” Draco challenged. “And better yet, why aren’t _you_ at breakfast with your Weasley and Granger?”

“They’re not – never mind,” Potter scowled. He paused, then tried again. “I’m not hungry.”

“Ah, looks like I’ve finally got something in common with the great Harry Potter,” drawled Draco.

And before he could stop himself, Draco walked over and sat down in the armchair across from the fire. Potter swiveled to face him, still sat on the floor, and rested his chin in his hand.

“You weren’t at dinner last night though.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Are you still keeping tabs on me? Oh, what am I saying, of course you are, Potter,” Draco said as if it were obvious. He smirked. “Your inner stalker is showing itself again.”

Potter seemed embarrassed; he ducked his head down and stared at his hands.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” he mumbled without conviction. “I’m just saying, you must be hungry.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“You _are_ , though,” Potter insisted.

“Fuck you, Potter,” Draco snapped, standing up. Potter’s gaze followed him. “What do you know about anything –“

“I know about being hungry,” Potter said flatly. “I grew up hungry, and then I had to go hungry all over again last year. And considering how much you eat and, well, don’t eat, I know for a fact that you are.”

Draco blinked down at him. Potter’s childhood was still shrouded in speculation and myth – he never talked about the Muggles he lived with. But everyone knew about Potter and co.’s great camping trip. It was hard for Draco to picture, even if he _did_ see the three of them at the tail end of it.

There was something strange in Potter’s expression, in his eyes, in the resolute way he was clenching his jaw. It was vulnerability, Draco realized with surprise. Potter was being vulnerable – willingly – in front of Draco. Weakly, Draco dropped down into the armchair again. Potter’s tense shoulders dropped.

“It’s different, Potter,” Draco said, all the energy gone out of his voice, “And you know it. This is…intentional.”

He’d never talked about this to anyone besides Pansy. Barely Pansy.

“Why do you do it?” Potter’s tone wasn’t judgmental. It was simply curious.

Draco shrugged. “An unfortunate consequence of the Dark Lord taking up residence in my home, I suppose.”

Potter’s green eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t say anything. He must’ve wanted Draco to keep talking, and the words that had been stuck in him for so long fell out.

“I didn’t have an appetite. I couldn’t. I was either too busy being terrified or anxious to even _think_ about eating. He isn’t the most pleasant houseguest, if you can imagine.” Draco hesitated. “It never came back, and I – I don’t mind. You said you know about being hungry, Potter, so you must know how it feels like when you’re starving. You know when you feel disconnected from reality, like you’re not even controlling your body. You’re not so…present.”

“The brain fog,” Potter mumbled. “You like it?”

“It’s the only thing that keeps me from offing myself,” Draco said wryly, only half-joking. “And the weight loss is just a happy side-effect.”

Potter frowned. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and then said, “And what about the, er, making yourself…y’know…”

He made a half-arsed attempt at miming purging, and Draco didn’t know whether to laugh or shout. He settled on taking a deep breath.

“I don’t…like the feeling of food in me anymore,” Draco admitted.

Even Pansy hadn’t gotten him to say this much. He took a ragged breath and wondered why he was even telling Potter all this. Maybe it was because all Pansy did was yell at him and demand that he stop. But Potter’s voice was calm and non-judgmental, everything Pansy’s wasn’t.

Potter was gazing at him with such intensity it made Draco flush. What was this prat playing at? Why did he even care what Draco did?”

Suddenly embarrassed, he flushed further and snapped defensively, “I don’t fucking know, alright? Why do you even care, Potter? Last I checked, you hated me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Potter said, and Draco almost believed him. “You saved my life. Your mother – “

“Saved your life, too,” Draco cut him off, lazily flapping Potter’s words away with a hand. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all before. Doesn’t mean you don’t hate me.”

“I don’t have the energy for it, Malfoy. I really don’t,” Potter said when Draco gave him a doubtful look.

“Even if you didn’t, why would you try to help me? That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

“You don’t look well,” Potter said by way of answer.

The words stung even if Draco knew what he meant. It must’ve shown on his face, because Potter quickly added, “You look ill. Worse than you did in sixth year.”

Draco was put-off by how similar Potter’s words were to Draco’s line of thought just ten minutes ago. He couldn’t think of anything to say. His first instinct was to be defensive, but there seemed to be no fight in him left.

“I’m fine,” he said lamely.

Potter sighed. “Are you? Are you happy, Malfoy?”

Draco took a shuddering breath. _Are you happy?_ What the fuck kind of question was that? Potter wasn’t a bloody Mind Healer. He wasn’t even Draco’s friend. What right did he have to ask Draco that?

He didn’t remember the last time someone had asked him that.

Draco suddenly felt dangerously close to crying, and Heaven knew he wouldn’t let Potter see him like _that_ again. He knew how badly it had ended the last time.

On shaky legs, Draco stood and turned away, meaning to go back up the stairs to his room. He heard Potter get up too.

“Malfoy?”

He walked faster, hot tears falling helplessly down his face. His throat was tight and he couldn’t swallow, much less talk. He had only reached the first step before a strong hand clamped around his left arm. Draco tried to pull out of Potter’s grip, but he was too weak. Too damned weak to escape Potter’s clutches. More tears fell, and Draco wiped them violently away with his free hand.

“Hey.”

Potter pulled on Draco’s arm again. Draco fought before submitting, letting himself be forced down from the one step he’d climbed and turned to face Potter. He slowly released his grip on Draco.

Draco looked him square in the eye, meeting the other man’s gaze even as more tears fell down his cheeks. He bit his bottom lip to keep it from quivering. Potter looked back at him unflinchingly, steadily. There was a softness in his eyes, and Draco didn’t think he’d ever seen them so up-close. And then he was reaching out at Draco.

With a panic Draco realized that Potter was trying to _hug him_ , and he instinctively shoved hard at Potter’s chest with all his strength. Potter stumbled backward; he looked down at where Draco had pushed him, and then back up at Draco. And then he stepped forward again and enveloped Draco in his arms.

This time, Draco didn’t react quickly enough and he became trapped in Potter’s strong arms. Draco froze, having no idea what to do. Potter was _hugging_ him. Harry Potter’s arms were actually wrapped around Draco, enclosing him with his body’s warmth and his indeterminable scent. Draco felt Potter’s chest move as he breathed against him, and slowly, hesitantly, he brought his arms up from his sides and hugged Potter back.

And then he was sobbing. The tears ran faster and heavier down his face and he was gasping for breaths that didn’t come; he clutched onto Potter, who held back just as tightly and didn’t make a sound.

Draco didn’t remember the last time he had allowed himself to cry so openly – it must’ve been ages ago considering just how strongly he was currently weeping. He screwed his eyes shut and burrowed his face in Potter’s shoulder, too overcome by sadness to think too carefully about what he was doing.

“It’s alright,” Potter was saying. “It’s alright, Malfoy.”

Draco wanted to laugh – this was the exact opposite of ‘alright,’ and they both knew it.

It was a few minutes before Draco had calmed down enough to pull away and wipe his face dry. Potter’s eyes were intense as he watched Draco, making Draco even more uncomfortable than he already was. He cleared his throat.

“Well, as fun as this has been,” Draco managed to say, his voice wavering only slightly, “I think I’m going to go back to my room.”

“Wait,” said Potter as Draco turned away. “You don’t need to go.”

“I know,” Draco said flatly, glancing back at Potter. “I want to.”

* * *

 

When Draco saw Potter next, it was in the Great Hall, ironically enough. He stiffened when they made eye contact, and when Potter didn’t look away after several moments, Draco looked down at his plate in embarrassment and defeat.

He remembered how his panic had resumed as soon as he’d gotten back to his room, and how he spent a good fifteen minutes trying to remember how to breathe. He stayed in there until Pansy and Blaise had come to drag him out to lunch. That was a day ago, and Draco still wasn’t sure what to make of the whole exchange.

“Are you alright, Draco?”

Pansy’s words shook him out of his thoughts, and he looked sideways at her.

“Fine.”

“Draco…”

“Not here,” Draco hissed. “Not anywhere, but especially not here.”

Pansy said nothing, choosing instead to look at him sadly. He couldn’t stand it, how _she_ looked so hurt when really it was Draco who should be looking that way.

He maintained eye contact until Pansy gave up and turned to talk to Daphne Greengrass. Her younger sister, Astoria, sat beside her. She was a strange one. Though both Greengrasses were elegant in every possible way, Astoria was much quieter and less openly confrontational than her sister was. Where Daphne sought out gossip and reveled in spreading it (as classily as possible, of course), Astoria simply stayed where she was and listened.

With a start, Draco realized that Astoria had caught him looking at her and felt his face warm. Astoria gave him a sly smile before turning her attention back to her sister and Pansy.

After lunch, Draco was dragged along to the library by Pansy, and the two of them were accompanied by the Greengrasses. This was clearly a thinly veiled attempt to keep Draco within her sight after they’d eaten, and Draco begrudgingly let it happen. He’d skip dinner to make up for it.

Draco and Astoria trailed along after Pansy and Daphne, who seemed to be discussing a seventh year who’d recently _Diffindo-_ ed her own hair with disastrous results. Draco’s mind drifted. Just half a year ago, they were in a war. People had _died._ Students who currently walked these halls had tortured younger students not so long ago – Draco included. And _this_ is what captured people’s minds?

“You alright, Malfoy?”

He glanced over at Astoria – she was tall for a sixteen-year old girl, her blue eyes level to the tip of Draco’s nose.

“Fine,” he replied.

She gave him a look of amused disbelief, and he raised an eyebrow.

“What, Greengrass?” he drawled. “You beg to differ?”

Astoria rolled her eyes but didn’t respond.

* * *

 

Draco found that he quite liked Astoria. She was clever and honest, often bluntly so. She was smarter than most others her age and preferred actual conversations over useless gossip. She actually talked to him instead of ignoring or taunting him like others in their House (or rather, others in Hogwarts), and seemed interested in what he had to say.

He loved Pansy and always would – they were childhood friends, after all – but conversations with her went one of two ways these days, gossip about classmates he could care less about, or his ‘path of self-destruction,’ which he wanted to avoid for obvious reasons.

Speaking of self-destruction, Draco was currently holed up in the sixth-floor bathroom, purging himself of the little food he’d eaten at dinner. He finished quickly and went to rinse himself off, thinking about how Pansy had seemed torn between shouting at him and crying when she saw him leaving. Blaise wasn’t at the table, apparently too preoccupied to join them like he had been for the past few days. Daphne had barely blinked when he stood, but Astoria had regarded him with a soft expression, her mouth pulled down in a slight frown.

Splashing his face with cold water, he rid the images from his mind and tried to relieve himself of the guilt. Did they think he _liked_ doing this? Maybe he did – no, he _definitely_ did – during the act, but it was all temporary. After he was done, after the ‘high,’ all he was left with was the visceral disgust for himself and massive guilt.

He looked at his reflection; his eyes were bloodshot but at least his nose wasn’t bleeding this time.

Draco left the bathroom and was met with the sight of Astoria, who had clearly been waiting for him outside. He froze as he locked eyes with her, his body unable to move from the shock. The only sound in the corridor was the bathroom door closing shut with a slow groan. Finally, Draco took a deep breath and tried for a glare.

“Did Pansy send you?”

“No, I’m here on my own volition,” answered Astoria, taking a step forward. Her arms were crossed and her blonde hair fell to her chest in careful, loose waves. “Because I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be,” Draco said.

He began to walk away, heading in the direction of the eighth-year dorms. Astoria followed him and caught up, coming to walk by his side.

Astoria rolled her eyes. “Don’t be a prat. I’ve half a mind to take you to Pomfrey.”

“No,” Draco said quickly, looking sideways at her in alarm. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“My mother,” he said quietly. “She – she can’t know.”

Draco knew her mother was much too fragile to receive news that her son was starving himself. With his father in prison, she was all alone in the Manor with only the house elves to keep her company. She would be beside herself.

Astoria’s voice grew soft. “What if Pomfrey didn’t tell her? You’re a legal adult; she’s not required to.”

Draco shook his head. His throat was tight and he upped his pace.

“I can’t risk it. And at any rate, it would be a waste of everyone’s time. Pomfrey can’t do anything about it;” – _about me –_ “this isn’t something she can fix with a potion.”

“A Mind Healer, then.”

“With what gold?” Draco hissed. “What with reparations and our Dark valuables confiscated, my family doesn’t have extra money to throw at overpriced Mind Healers. And I’ve _got_ to finish school – I haven’t the time to skive lessons.”

Astoria opened her mouth, but Draco spoke before she had the chance.

“Face it, Greengrass. There’s nothing you or I or _anyone_ can do.”

They’d made it to the eighth-year dormitories; Draco muttered the password to the portrait and gone through the portrait hole as soon as it’d opened, leaving Astoria dumbfounded and alone in the corridor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep worrying that I'm recycling dialogue/situations from my other eighth-year fic but I think I'm alright. It's definitely been a while since I've looked at it though, so who knows.
> 
> Enjoy (blowing kiss emoji)!

When Draco entered the eighth-year common room, it was Potter who caught his eye first.

He was predictably sat with Granger and Weasley. They seemed to be working on papers, though while Granger was bent studiously over her parchment and Weasley was staring dumbfoundedly at his own, Potter was leaning back against a cushioned chair and unabashedly looking at Draco. He raised his eyebrows as he stared at him, then glanced over at Pansy, Blaise, and the elder Greengrass, as if to ask, ‘ _what were you doing without them_?’ even though they both knew very well what he’d been doing.

Draco felt his neck heat as he scowled and made his way over to the staircase, not wanting to deal with Pansy’s questions and Blaise’s judging looks and Daphne’s…Daphne.

It was with a strong sense of déjà vu that Draco was stopped on the staircase, though this time he’d gone up far enough to be concealed by the curve of it.

“Malfoy, wait.”

Draco turned around to glower down at Potter, who was standing a few steps below Draco, concern written plainly on his face. For a moment, Draco wanted to run to his room and lock the door behind him when he thought of how he’d wept into Potter’s arms like a child the last time they had spoken, but he held his ground. Draco did what he knew, what had been drilled into him as a child, and lifted his chin and looked down his nose at Potter.

“Wipe that look off your face,” Draco drawled. “It’s unbecoming.”

Worry turned to surprise turned to annoyance.

“That’s better,” Draco said, though Potter had already started talking over him.

“Were you making yourself sick again?”

Now it was Draco’s turn to be surprised.

“Really, Potter, it’s flattering that you pay that much attention to me,” he said, rolling his eyes at Potter before starting up the stairs again.

He heard Potter scowl behind him, and then his footsteps hurrying up the steps.

“It’s not like you’re being very discreet.”

“So sorry. Next time I’ll try harder.”

“There shouldn’t _be_ a next time.”

Draco had reached his door. He turned to face Potter, his back to the door. Potter stood a few steps below him, arms crossed and face stubborn.

“You’re even thicker than you look if you really think there isn’t going to be one.”

He turned and opened his door, taking a few steps inside before swiveling to look at Potter, who was standing hesitantly just outside.

“Come in if you must,” said Draco before he thought better of it.

Potter blinked before he hurried inside, closing the door behind him as if he were afraid Draco would change his mind. Which to be fair, Draco was very close to doing so.

“You’re hurting yourself,” said Potter, his voice accusatory. “You can’t keep doing it.”

“Oh, and I suppose _you’re_ going to stop me?”

“Someone has to,” Potter said nonchalantly.

“What makes you think you can do better than Pansy or Astoria?”

Something indiscernible flitted over Potter’s face. “Greengrass? You barely know her.”

“Because we’re such good mates, Potter?” scoffed Draco. “Which reminds me, _why do you even care_?”

Potter sighed heavily; so heavily, in fact, that it seemed to be a sigh suitable for a 100-year-old wizard rather than an eighteen-year-old one. He sat on Blaise’s bed – without asking first, naturally – and looked at Draco tiredly.

“I just want to help you, Malfoy. You look like shite,” said Potter, his green eyes boring into Draco’s. “And besides, it’d be bollocks if this is what finished you off, after everything that’s happened to you.”

“What do _you_ know about ‘what’s happened to me’?” Draco asked, wanting to be mad but instead uncomfortable under Potter’s intense gaze. He sat on his own bed, across from Potter.

“More than you’d like,” confessed Potter. “I know what went on the night Dumbledore died, and I know that Voldemort made you torture people.”

Draco flinched at the name spoken so boldly from Potter’s lips and looked down at his lap. Underneath his left sleeve, his forearm seemed to burn. His stomach lurched at the thought of the Dark Lord’s cold voice and stale breath in Draco’s ear, the way he’d talk Draco into torturing people, the threat of his parents’ death and his own hanging over his head all the time.

“And, pray tell, how do you know that?” Draco asked after a moment.

“I was there. In the astronomy tower.”

Draco closed his eyes. Of course he was. Fucking Harry Potter has to be in the middle of everything. He rubbed at his forehead, feeling a headache coming on.

“And the…?” He found he couldn’t say the words aloud.

“I got visions from Voldemort,” Potter explained. Draco could hear him shuffling from where he sat. “You were in some of them.”

“Lovely,” said Draco, opening his eyes. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“You know I didn’t, Malfoy,” Potter said flatly.

Draco laughed – he had to – at the absurdity of it all. Potter had somehow tricked Draco into thinking it was _normal_ for him to invite the prat into his room and have him tell Draco about _himself_.

“Whatever,” said Draco, sliding his shoes off and going to lie back against his pillows and headboard. He folded his hands together in his lap. “Say what you’ve come here to say. Make your case.”

Potter looked at him, eyebrows furrowed. “I’m worried, Malfoy. That’s the easiest way to put it. But I can tell that anything I say is just going to bounce off you right now, so I’m going to leave.”

It was strange how disappointed Draco felt at those words. He tried to not let it show on his face, tried to keep it as impassive as possible. There was a sinking feeling in his chest as he watched Potter stand up and walk over to the door. Potter hesitated and turned.

“Just, er, take care of yourself, Malfoy.”

Draco could only nod, his throat tight, as he watched Potter leave.

* * *

 

Why was he so irritated that Potter had left that night? Wasn’t he the one who just wanted everyone to leave him alone and mind their own business? He still felt vaguely hurt whenever he thought of the way Potter had looked at him with such a resigned look on his face before he had left.

It’s been five days since that night, and Potter hadn’t cornered him since. Draco had almost come to expect it, to see Potter’s stupid, worried face after coming into the eighth-year dormitories or leaving the Great Hall or the bathroom.

He didn’t realize at the time the finality of Potter’s statement. Draco thought that maybe he’d given up for the night, but he’d be back the next day to give him that wounded look and ask him invasive questions. But instead of all that, Potter had just gone back to not interfering in Draco’s life, like he had been at the start of the school year.

It confused and annoyed and upset Draco, and he could barely eat at all those five days.

* * *

 

So naturally, he shouldn’t have been surprised when he fell to the floor simply after being hit by a moderate stinging hex, but he was.

Students moved around him, barely blinking as they walked past.

Draco ground his teeth as he sat up, his knees aching where they had hit the floor. He looked around the nearly empty corridor but saw no one suspicious. _Figures_ , thought Draco bitterly, _the cowards_. Feeling too weak to stand up just yet, he pushed himself to the closest wall, wanting to get out of the way. He gingerly placed a hand on his left side and winced. Draco could feel the welt already swelling slowly, painful to the touch.

His head swam. He closed his eyes and pressed his palm to his forehead in an effort to stop the world from spinning so much. It didn’t work.

“Malfoy?”

Draco snapped his head up and immediately regretted it, his head aching with a newfound vengeance and his vision swirling. He blinked at the figure approaching him and could make out…of course.

“Sod off, Potter,” he said without any real venom.

He shut his eyes again, marveling at his rotten luck, but also half-relieved that Potter was talking to him again.

“You alright?”

Draco opened his eyes and glared at Potter, who was crouched in front of him.

“What’s it look like?”

Potter frowned. “What happened?”

“Some coward hexed me. Nothing life-threatening, so don’t worry your big head about it,” Draco added at the look on Potter’s face.

The fact that Potter was showing real emotion sent a strange thrill through Draco. The fool Gryffindor was gritting his teeth and looking around as if _he_ could somehow figure out who’d done it.

Draco followed his gaze and noticed some younger students glancing at them curiously as they walked past. Still nobody that looked like the culprit. He then realized Potter was alone.

“Where are your friends, Potter?” Draco asked, and Potter’s green eyes were on him again. “Your girlfriend? Do they know you’re tending to a Death Eater?”

“Wha – Ginny? She’s not my girlfriend,” Potter said, ignoring the other questions. He came closer and put a hand out, his face stony again. “Come on Malfoy, let’s get you to Pomfrey.”

“No,” Draco said immediately, looking at Potter’s hand with distaste. “I’m fine. I just need…a moment to collect myself.”

Potter stared at him for a moment, as if trying to figure him out.

“When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”

“What does it matter?”

“It matters cos you can’t even stand up, you git,” Potter ground out. “Now come on. We’re either going to Pomfrey or to get food, so choose one.”

Draco paled, suddenly feeling nauseated. “I’m not – you can’t force me to make ultimatums! I know you’re used to getting what you want, _Chosen One_ , but you don’t have that sort of sway with me.”

Potter’s eyes flashed at the use of the nickname, and Draco felt a sort of sick pride at the look of discomfort on his face.

“Pomfrey or food, Malfoy.”

“You can’t force me to do anything, Potter,” Draco snapped at him. “This is ridiculous.”

He wanted to stand up and walk away, but he still felt a bit too wobbly to do so. Potter already knew this and studied him, looking him up and down. Draco flushed just a bit at the intensity of his gaze.

“Stop leering at me,” he told him, and interestingly enough, Potter became flustered and stood up, stepping back and away from Draco.

“I was just thinking that I could probably carry you, so yeah, I _could_ force you.”

Draco felt nauseated all over again at the thought of Potter carrying him around Hogwarts like a gigantic prat. He huffed out a short breath before taking hold of his bag and standing up slowly. He got light-headed all over again and Draco had to pause a second before looking at Potter.

“Fine,” he said amicably enough. “I suppose if I really have to choose, I could eat something.”

Potter blinked as if he hadn’t been expecting it (as if he hadn’t been demanding it), and then grinned at Draco. An actual, honest-to-Merlin smile that was directed at Draco.

Out of all the things that had knocked Draco off balance that day, Harry Potter smiling at him might’ve been the most disarming.

* * *

 

“Not that I’m complaining, but we’ve just passed the Great Hall,” Draco drawled as Potter led them past the entrance.

“Yeah I know,” said Potter, unbothered. “We’re not going there.”

“So where _are_ you taking us?”

Potter glanced back at him with a smirk, and Draco’s heart leapt.

“You’ll see. Come on, Malfoy.”

He took them down some stairs and led them down a corridor, stopping at a painting of a bowl of fruit. Draco squinted at it.

“I don’t…is this some sort of strange exercise, Potter? Am I meant to look at this until I feel like eating again?”

Potter let out a short laugh but didn’t respond. Instead, he turned towards the painting and… _tickled_ it. The pear that Potter had tickled let out a disturbing giggle and turned into a door handle. Potter took hold of it and pulled down, and Draco gaped.

“What is this?” he asked as he stepped closer.

He peered inside the room and quickly realized that it was an enormous kitchen. There were more pots and pans than Draco could count, stacked high throughout the room. House-elves were running about, chopping and slicing and heating and washing, everywhere he looked. The smell of food sizzling and bread baking wafted towards Draco, and he wasn’t certain if he was suddenly starving or nauseated.

He turned back towards Potter, who had a small smile on his face.

“Come on.”

Draco followed Potter into the kitchen and marveled as they walked towards a large, brick fireplace. Even as they walked, a few house-elves came scurrying to catch up with Potter and looked up at him with huge, adoring eyes.

“Mr. Potter, sir, is you looking for a snack, sir?”

Potter looked down at them; the slight smile grew.

“Yes, my friend and I were hoping to get a bite to eat.”

Draco was too flabbergasted to say anything – Potter, calling him a _friend_? Was he feeling alright? Or maybe Draco was actually just hallucinating everything or dreaming it all up; he might’ve still been in that corridor, perhaps he’d just been knocked out and was in the middle of some obscure fantasy involving Harry Potter, house-elves, and a gigantic, secret kitchen.

Too caught up in his thoughts, he barely realized that Potter had sat him down near the fireplace and was trying to catch his attention.

“What?” Draco snapped, though he had no right to. He felt his face warm but he tilted his chin up defensively all the same.

Potter looked amused before quickly turning serious.

“What kind of food do you think you can eat?”

“I – I don’t know,” Draco admitted. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Just try, alright?” Potter asked so gently, so uncharacteristically tender, that Draco nodded instead of trying to fight him.

The two watched as house-elves brought plates laden with all sorts of food – sandwiches, vegetables both raw and cooked, chicken, eggs, fruit – and a large pot of soup. They arranged smaller plates, bowls, and silverware in front of them, and looked up at Potter.

“Is this being all, sir?”

“Yeah, this is brilliant,” Potter replied. “Thanks.”

They scurried off, but all Draco could do was stare at the food. He raised his eyebrow at Potter.

“You know it’s just the two of us, right?”

Potter seemed flustered. “Yeah, I just didn’t know what you’d like, so…”

“So you ordered enough food for an army? Or perhaps just enough for Weasley.”

“Sod off, Malfoy,” Potter said good-naturedly, and began piling one of the plates with food. Halfway through, he looked up at Draco and nodded his head towards the plate in front of Draco. “Go on. Take whatever you can handle.”

 _Whatever I can handle?_ thought Draco as he stared down at the frankly appalling amount of food laid out on the table. And Salazar, he _was_ hungry, but he didn’t know if that was enough to override the panic and disgust and reluctance that was already taking over him.

He was suddenly very annoyed at Potter. The git had practically ignored him for _days_ but thought that he could just waltz back into Draco’s life and give him an ultimatum? _Force_ him to eat or go to Pomfrey? Who did he think he was?

Draco crossed his arms and glared at Potter, who only realized it when he’d looked up from his plate. His eyes flitted down to Draco’s still-empty plate, then back up to Draco’s face.

“Malfoy?”

“You can’t force me,” Draco said crossly, feeling his cheeks warm when he realized just how childish he must have sounded.

“Please, Malfoy,” Potter said, putting his fork down and focusing solely on Draco. “You must be starving. You need to eat something.”

Draco’s brows furrowed. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Potter say ‘please’ in his entire life, much less to him.

“Just one thing, and I’ll leave you alone.”

“I –“ began Draco before flushing and clamping his mouth shut.

“What?”

He had very nearly told Potter that he didn’t want him to leave him alone, and Draco’s heartrate quickened at the thought.

“Nothing,” Draco said dismissively.

He looked down at the food again. Despite his slight nausea, his stomach betrayed him by growling loudly enough for Potter to hear. Draco glared at the git when he’d raised a judgmental eyebrow.

“Fine. One thing?”

Draco peered into the soup pots – one seemed to be a thick, creamy one with cauliflower, and the other a nice orange-red with lentils. It was a given, really, thought Draco as he shakily picked up a bowl and spooned some of the latter into it. He set it down, feeling Potter’s eyes on him, and picked up a spoon.

Breathing out slowly, he got a spoonful of soup (just a few lentils) and brought it up to his mouth. He swallowed it quickly, not wanting to think about how he’d been strong-armed into breaking his fast by Harry bloody Potter.

The offending arsehole was smiling at him, and it annoyed Draco even more.

“Stop that,” said Draco.

Potter didn’t stop, but he _did_ stop staring, and that was something. Potter began eating again, and Draco sighed down at his soup. It wasn’t that bad, he supposed, and now that he’d _had_ food, he’d realized just how famished he was. He had another few spoonfuls over the course of a few minutes.

At one point, he got the nerve to look back up at Potter and wasn’t too surprised that they’d locked eyes almost immediately.

“I really hate you, Potter,” Draco told him without any vehemence.

“No,” Potter said. He set his elbow on the table and put his chin in his hand. “I don’t think you do.”

“I think you’re an annoying git with a savior complex,” tried Draco, “Who doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone.”

Potter laughed shortly, and when he spoke, it was in a self-deprecating tone. “Yeah, that might be true.”

Draco studied him for a moment. “ _Do_ your friends know that you’ve decided that I’m your new project?”

Potter began fiddling with a loose thread on the sleeve of his robes, avoiding Draco’s eyes.

“Er, well, I guess not,” he said with a frown. “They haven’t noticed.”

“They haven’t noticed?”

Potter’s frown deepened. “Ron and Hermione are… _busy_ with each other.”

Draco grimaced, suddenly assaulted by a vision of Granger and Weasley –

“Well, I certainly didn’t need to know that,” he snapped.

“You asked,” Potter smirked, clearly amused. “But, er, yeah. I’m sort of left alone when they go off to…y’know. Which is fine; they have six bloody years of pent-up _everything_ , so I’d just rather leave them to it.”

Draco raised his eyebrows.

“Do they use your room? I’m assuming you’re rooming with Weasley.”

“Yeah,” said Potter, frowning all over again. “I walked in on them once, and it was – “

“No,” Draco said loudly. “I’d really rather hear about anything else in the world.”

Potter laughed again, and Draco thought that it was quite a nice laugh.

“Fair enough,” Potter said, still grinning. His green eyes were bright. “We’re having a real conversation, Malfoy.”

“You know, Potter, you’ve really got a knack for stating the obvious.”

“It’s just, er, well, I think it’s nice,” said Potter with difficulty.

Draco let out a breathy laugh. Harry Potter thought that their having an amicable conversation was _nice_.

“Well,” Draco said hesitantly, “I suppose that after everything, an actual conversation is long overdue.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over them as they both considered what ‘everything’ entailed. A whole litany of arguments and taunts, Potter punching Draco in the stomach, Draco breaking Potter’s nose, Potter slicing Draco up…it was endless, really.

“Listen, Malfoy – “

Draco cut him off.

“No, Potter. I don’t – we don’t need to rehash anything. It wouldn’t do any good.”

“Just one thing, then,” Potter said quickly, and before Draco could object, he continued speaking, “I never actually apologized for the, er, what happened in Myrtle’s bathroom. I’m really sorry. I swear I didn’t know what the curse did, and if I did, I _never_ would have used it.”

Draco inhaled through his nose, uncertain of what he was feeling. Potter looked so sincere, which just made it worse.

He finally settled on saying quietly, “Took you long enough.”

Potter was silent, his eyes searching.

“Did it, er…did Snape…?”

“It scarred, if that’s what you’re trying to ask,” Draco said shortly.

“I’m sorry,” said Potter quietly.

“It’s alright, Potter. Really. Just forget it.”

Potter’s brows were furrowed but he didn’t push it. Apparently resigned to dropping the subject, he picked up his fork again. His eyes flicked up at Draco.

“Eat your soup, you git.”

And amazingly enough, Draco did.

* * *

 

When they’d left an hour later, Draco had finished a bowl of soup and had even poked a bit at some steamed vegetables and chicken. When he’d first taken a bite of the chicken, Potter looked at Draco like he’d hung the moon, which was frankly quite ridiculous since _he_ was the Chosen One, and Draco was just…Draco, the failed Death Eater who’d forgotten how to eat properly. 

Nevertheless, Draco had eaten solid food for the first time in about two days (fifty-three hours, to be precise) and he thought he could actually keep it down. And the stomach pain was minimal, which was an unexpected bonus.

Potter must’ve planned this, thought Draco as he looked at the other boy. He had purposefully taken Draco down to the secret kitchen and blathered on to keep him there even after they’d eaten, just so Draco wouldn’t throw it up.

Draco stared at him openly, the Gryffindor too caught up in his critique of their new Defense professor to notice. He really was fit, which was completely unfair because he _shouldn’t_ be. The prat had no fashion sense whatsoever, but even he did, it wouldn’t make an ounce of difference since all his clothes (sans school robes) were much too big for him. His hair was just as unruly as ever, disobedient and out-of-place in a way that made Draco’s skin itch. His glasses were still ugly and circular, and Draco had a theory that they were the exact same ones Potter had been wearing when they’d first met – just _engorgio_ ed over the years.

But it all suited him.

It was irritating, _so_ incredibly frustrating, that Potter could still look so good without even trying. He was bloody gorgeous when he smiled, all bright eyes and cheeky grins, but even when he wasn’t, even when he was closed off to the entire world, he gave off an aura of authority and raw power. It was alluring and intimidating all at once.

And then Draco thought of himself, all pale, sallow skin and disgustingly soft with puffy cheeks and sunken eyes, it was embarrassing to even be seen next to Potter. He always felt inadequate, but even more so when he stood next to the Savior.

Which led him right back to the question which had been bothering Draco since Potter had first cornered him in the bathroom: what was Potter doing hanging around him? Surely, he had better things to do, better people to spend time with. Maybe it was that Draco was just so pathetic and pitiful that Potter felt a moral obligation to help him. It didn’t make sense no matter how Draco put it, but he _was_ certain about one thing.

He’d seen Potter smile more this afternoon than he had the entire school year.

* * *

 

Draco almost felt grateful to his attacker, in a way, because it’d gotten Potter to talk to him again.

Granted, it was almost only when Draco had skipped a meal or had gone to the loo to throw one up, but Potter was speaking to him. He continued to corner Draco, sometimes coming into the bathroom like he had the first night, which Draco _really_ didn’t like. He still looked at Draco with that strange, worried, confused expression, and he still tried to get Draco to talk to him. And really, Potter should feel lucky that he’d gotten any information out of Draco at all. It was no easy feat – Pansy and Astoria could attest to that.

In fact, it almost seemed like Pansy was drawing away from him. She still forced Draco into the Great Hall whenever she could, having him sit down next to her and put _something_ on his plate, but her interrogations had lessened greatly. She still regarded him with either sadness or anger, but she kept her mouth shut more often than not.

If Draco had to guess, he’d think that she was jealous of Astoria or Potter, or both.

* * *

 

He was telling Astoria of Pansy’s withdrawal from him as they walked the frosted lawn, gloved hands in pockets and scarves whirling in the wind. He’d just cast a warming charm on the both of them a few minutes ago, but he was already freezing again.

“She still cares deeply for you, Draco,” Astoria told him.

“I know,” Draco said, and he did. “I’m just not used to her not speaking to me so much. After seven years of always having her in my ear, it’s…strange.”

“Did she stop talking to you during your mission?”

She didn’t ask it cruelly; she merely asked it. Draco looked over at Astoria in surprise, and she looked back at him evenly. Damn the _Prophet_ , damn the trials and how highly publicized they were, damn the Dark Lord, and most of all, damn himself.

“No,” he said finally, glaring down at the ground. “Even then, she didn’t know to leave well enough alone. In fact, I don’t know who was worse, her or Potter.”

He scoffed as he said it. Astoria’s eyes widened and she smiled in a way that plainly said, ‘you’re having me on.’

“Potter? What’s he have to do with anything?”

“Haven’t you heard? He has to do with everything,” Draco scowled. She was still staring incredulously at him, so he explained, “He thought I was guilty, which to be fair, I _was_ , but he had a nasty habit of following me everywhere I went our sixth year.”

“Merlin,” said Astoria, stunned. “I never understood him. He’s always seemed off to me.”

Draco let out a surprised laugh.

“Yeah, I suppose he is.”

“Speak of the devil,” Astoria said lowly and nodded her head at the two figures coming towards them.

“Oh, good,” muttered Draco.

The two pairs both slowed as they approached each other, coming to a full stop a few feet away from each other. Potter was dressed warmly in what looked to be a handknit jumper with a large ‘H’ on it and a black beanie pulled over his head. Ginevra Weasley stood next to him, her arms crossed and looking ready for a fight in a thick scarf and a matching jumper marked with a ‘G.’

“Potter, Weasley,” Draco greeted them as amicably as possible.

His gaze was on Potter even as he said Weasley’s name. His expression was closed off like it usually was – but perhaps a bit strained? Like something was bubbling just beneath the surface. He had said that Weasley wasn’t his girlfriend, but for all Draco knew, he could have been lying. What for, he had no idea, but it was still a possibility.

Weasley didn’t look too happy either. Her red hair was blowing in the wind, whipping around her frowning face, and she made no move to pull it back.

“Malfoy,” Potter nodded. His green eyes flitted over to Astoria and narrowed infinitesimally. “And Greengrass.”

“Yes,” said Astoria.

She sounded relaxed, and when Draco glanced over at her, she looked it too. It was another way in which she was so different from Pansy; the latter would have tensed and gone into defense mode immediately.

“You alright?”

Draco snapped his head back to Potter at his voice; he was looking at Draco again. Draco shifted under his intense gaze.

“Fine,” he said. “You?”

“Fine,” Potter echoed back at him. He dug his hands further in his pockets. “Right. Well, see you later, Malfoy.”

Weasley’s hard stare had never left Draco; only when Potter began walking did she tear her gaze away and turn her back on the two Slytherins.

“Later,” Draco said weakly, but he wasn’t sure if Potter had heard him over the howling wind.

He and Astoria watched the two head back towards the castle, once again deep in conversation that Draco wished he was privy to.

“Like I said,” Astoria murmured, pulling Draco out of his thoughts, “A bit off.”

“Yeah.”

* * *

 

The eighth years had chosen to throw a holiday party before the majority of them left for home.

Draco was goaded into attending by Blaise, Pansy, Daphne, and Astoria, who seemed to have snuck into the Common Room at some point and seemed very intent on staying. Draco had almost convinced himself that he’d be fine holed up in his room, away from the noise and commotion, when Blaise had come in unexpectedly and regarded Draco with judgmental eyes.

“Are you really going to spend the night in here?” Blaise had asked warily, heading to his closet and shrugging off his robes. He glanced over at Draco as he hung them up. “Come on, don’t be stupid.”

Before Draco could respond, Blaise had left the room and Draco, sat on his bed with a book he hadn’t really been reading. He’d already made up his mind and was changing out of his uniform when Pansy and Daphne burst in, followed by a much calmer (sober) Astoria.

“ _Dracooooo_ ,” Pansy whined, dropping down onto his bed. “Come outside, you’re missing everything.”

“And just how drunk are you?” asked Draco as he straightened out his black jumper.

“Pleasantly,” replied Pansy.

Daphne Greengrass sat down next to Pansy and smoothed her hair down.

“She’s drunk herself silly already,” Daphne said fondly, though her speech was slightly slurred as well.

Pansy batted Daphne’s hand away without much avail.

“Merlin, are all three of you completely pissed?”

“Not me,” said Astoria from the doorframe. “They just don’t know how to handle their drink.”

“I haven’t seen her drink _one drop_ ,” Daphne said accusingly, pointing a finger at her sister. “We know how to handle our drink perfectly.”

“It’s true, Draco,” Pansy assured him. She narrowed her eyes at him, taking into account the jumper he hardly ever wore. “Oh, so you _are_ coming down!”

“Yes, I am, you madwoman. Now are we going or not? Or would you rather stay in here the whole night?”

Pansy scoffed as she stood unsteadily. “Merlin, no! I’m planning on snogging someone tonight, and it _certainly_ couldn’t happen here.”

The four of them made their way down the spiral staircase (two of them with difficulty, the other two with exasperation) and spilled out into the crowd. The amount of students packed into the eighth year common room was appalling, and it was clear that Astoria wasn’t the only seventh year to gatecrash. What Draco assumed to be Muggle music was playing loudly enough that it made Draco’s insides vibrate with the beat. Pansy and Daphne disappeared almost immediately, and Astoria rolled her eyes and took hold of Draco’s wrist.

She pulled him over to a surprisingly impressive drinks station, one of the low study tables transfigured into a wide table that held all sorts of beverages. Butterbeer, firewhiskey, eggnog, some sort of punch (undeniably spiked), and even water were all laid out haphazardly, ready for the taking.

“I’ll drink if you will, Draco,” Astoria said, though she was already pouring herself some eggnog.

“I guess I don’t have much of a choice, then,” Draco said.

He chose punch for himself, and the two of them cheersed and drank.

The two of them loitered in a relatively quiet corner for a good hour, drinking and chatting and people-watching. They laughed at Blaise chatting up some Ravenclaw girl Draco barely recognized, and at Pansy and Daphne dancing unabashedly with what looked like a pair of Gryffindor seventh years.

Draco’s gaze predictably fell on Potter at one point; he sipped at his drink as he watched Potter talk to the girl Weasley. Her brother and Granger were nowhere to be found, and Draco was reminded of Potter’s words and blanched.

“You’re staring, Draco,” Astoria told him, and Draco started.

He glared down at her. “No, I’m not.”

“That’s cute,” Astoria smirked. She finished her eggnog, then eyed Draco’s punch. “You done? I’m going to get more.”

Draco considered it. He was already feeling the effects of the punch – it was clearly stronger than it tasted. He really wasn’t planning on getting completely sloshed, but then he thought, why not? It’s not like he had classes tomorrow. He’d just be staying in the castle during Christmas, unable to face his mother and the Manor. With his father in prison, his mother was beside herself, a mere ghost of the woman she once was. Draco knew that he wouldn’t help any by showing up looking what he did.

“Draco?”

“Yes,” he said quickly, handing his glass to Astoria. “Thank you.”

Astoria took the glass and raised it towards him, her lips quirked into a lopsided smile. She disappeared into the crowd, and Draco deflated against the wall. He rubbed at his forehead; a headache was starting to form and Draco wondered how much water he’d had to drink today. Not nearly enough, he decided, and he knew he’d had even less food.

“Hey, Malfoy.”

Draco didn’t need to look up to see who it was, but he did anyway.

Potter stood in front of him, a bottle of butterbeer in his hand and his eyes hazy. Draco folded his arms across his chest.

“Potter,” Draco greeted. He looked round for Astoria; she was still pouring their drinks. “What brings you here?”

Potter’s brow furrowed. “Everyone’s here.”

“But here,” Draco emphasized, “With me.”

“Oh,” Potter said, and bit his lip. “Wanted to say hi. I said I’d see you later, didn’t I?”

He was definitely pissed. More so than Draco, which made him feel better.

“I suppose so,” Draco conceded. He looked at Potter for a moment. “Am I to guess Weasley and Granger are spending some time alone?”

Potter grimaced. “Don’t remind me. They left five minutes after we’d gotten here.”

“And the Weaslette?” Draco asked before he could stop himself. He didn’t see her now, and he wondered once again what her and Potter’s deal was.

“Ginny?” Potter asked, surprised. “She’s still…somewhere.” He looked around behind him before stilling and leaning forward slightly. “Is that…her with _Zabini_?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter – “ he began to say, but then he followed Potter’s line of sight and saw that Blaise was indeed talking to the youngest Weasley, his body a bit too close to hers for it to be deemed friendly. He let out a little laugh, unable to believe what he was seeing.

Potter snickered too, then, and soon the both of them were laughing.

“What’s happened?”

Astoria had returned and was looking back and forth between him and Potter, clearly confused.

“Oh, Astoria, thank you,” Draco said, taking his drink from her hand instead of responding right away. He took a gulp before nodding his head towards Blaise and Weasley. “You’ll never guess who Blaise is chatting up now.”

“Is that – Salazar!” She let out a loud laugh. “I reckon anything’s possible nowadays.”

Draco snorted into his drink before having some more. He savored the sweetness and the tartness that intermingled in his mouth, and the slight aftertaste of alcohol that lingered afterwards. He took another drink, his eyes once again falling on Potter. He’d never seen Potter drunk before, and it was almost surreal. It seemed not so long ago that they were both boys engaged in petty school rivalries, and now –

Well, everything was different. Draco was officially fucked in the head, and Potter certainly wasn’t the picture of health either. He used to be so expressive, wearing his heart on his sleeve and barely caring what anyone thought of him. Now, though, he was guarded and closed off. It was rare that Draco saw anything slip through the cracks, and he feared what lay underneath the surface. The emptiness that he caught in Potter’s eyes on rare occasions was unsettling enough.

Draco flushed when he realized Potter had caught him staring; he looked away quickly and tried to think of the last thing Astoria had said. When his fuzzy brain couldn’t manage it, he came up with the next best thing.

“Are you and Daphne heading back home tomorrow, then?” he asked her.

She raised her eyebrows but answered him. “Yes, we are. Mum would never forgive us if we didn’t.”

Draco hummed in response.

“And what about you, Potter? Leaving with your Weasleys?” he asked, and if there was a hint of bitterness in his voice, well, it’s not like Draco didn’t try.

“Nah,” said Potter. “Staying here. It’ll be my last chance at Christmas at Hogwarts and, er, I think the Weasleys need their space, since…”

An uncomfortable silence fell over them, and a Weird Sisters song began playing.

“Er, what about you, Malfoy?”

“I’m staying as well,” Draco answered, thankful for Potter for picking up the conversation again, and then immediately felt uneasy again because he didn’t exactly feel like discussing _why_ he was staying for the holiday.

“Good,” Potter said easily, and smiled slightly when Draco whipped his head around to look at him. “At least _someone_ will be here. Hermione’s going to her parents’ home for the first bit, and then she’s going to spend the rest of the time at the Burrow.”

“Well,” said Draco hesitantly, “I understand if you feel indebted to me after so generously gracing you with my presence.”

He felt a bit surprised that he could say all that without stumbling over the words and took another drink to celebrate.

Potter laughed, and he could feel Astoria rolling her eyes at the both of them. Draco smiled softly, feeling warmth spread through him that might not have wholly been from the alcohol.

* * *

 

The party had died down considerably an hour later. Some had retired to bed alone, and others had left with companions. When Draco realized that Blaise and the youngest Weasley had disappeared around the same time, he blanched.

“Hey Potter,” said Draco lazily, prodding his side with a finger.

Potter made an undignified yelping sound, a hand flying to the affected area, and glared down at Draco, who was currently resting his head against Potter’s shoulder. As much as Draco wanted to deny it, Potter made a very comfortable pillow, all warm and sturdy and smelling wonderful and Draco really was quite drunk, wasn’t he?

“What? What is it?” Potter asked roughly, though he didn’t actually sound mad. Draco knew very intimately what Potter sounded like when he was mad. “Malfoy?”

Draco tried to focus. What had he wanted to tell Potter? Oh.

“Did you see Blaise leave? Or Weasley? Because they’re both gone.”

He felt rather than saw Potter scan the room, the movements threatening to drive Draco’s head off Potter’s shoulder, but then Potter leaned back against the armchair they were both squeezed in and Draco was safe.

“Huh. I guess they are,” said Potter, his breath wafting into Draco’s face and smelling very strongly of the Muggle drink that burned just as much as firewhiskey did.

Draco had been coerced into taking a shot of that with Potter (and by Potter), and at the time, he’d hated it, but now…everything was hazy in a most pleasant way.

“Do you not care?”

“Why should I?” It sounded like he was frowning.

“Well,” Draco began, lazily watching the fireplace now, “She _was_ your girlfriend, wasn’t she?”

“’Was’ being the operative word.”

“Ooh, did you learn that from Granger?”

“Shove off, Malfoy.”

Draco chose to ignore this. “So you really don’t care in the slightest that your ex-girlfriend just slinked away with a dirty Slytherin?”

Draco’s head tilted as Potter shrugged. “As long as she’s safe and happy, she can do whatever she’d like.”

“Or whomever,” Draco added before he could stop himself.

He felt and heard Potter sigh. “You’re a prat.”

“You say such sweet things, Potter,” Draco said sarcastically. He sat up and immediately regretted it. The world had begun to spin aggressively, and Draco’s immediate solution was to lie down and rest his head on Potter’s lap. “Ah. Hope you don’t mind if I – ah, lie down right…here.”

 “Er,” said Potter.

“It’s alright, I’m just going to lie here for just a second. Just until the world stops spinning,” Draco explained, shutting his eyes but still feeling like he was on an extremely uneven surface, his entire being spinning round and round and round.

Potter was silent. Draco wondered belatedly if this had been a bad idea, but then he remembered that the idiot had _hugged_ him just a little while ago, so if he couldn’t handle Draco’s head in his lap, then, well, _tough_ –

His eyes sprung open as he felt one of Potter’s hands rest tentatively on his head. Draco’s whole body tensed as he wondered what could possibly be going through Potter’s brain, and then Potter’s hand started moving, _stroking his head_ , and then his fingers slipped through Draco’s fine hair and began _carding through it._

Draco thought that perhaps he’d made a garbled choking noise, but really, who could fault him? It wasn’t as if Harry bloody Potter played with his hair every day.

“You alright, Malfoy?” Potter asked lightly as if this was all incredibly normal.

Draco shut his eyes again; he was far too drunk to be processing all this right now.

“Yes, perfectly fine, thanks.”

“Good.”

Draco tried to be alright with it, he really did, but then he found himself asking, “Don’t you care if people see?”

“Huh?”

With effort, Draco opened his eyes and turned to look up at Potter. He tried not to blush as Potter blinked down at him, his dark hair falling in his eyes and looking much too handsome even in this point of view.

“I’m certain the _Prophet_ would eat this up, aren’t you?” Draco asked, swallowing tightly and trying to focus. Potter was now swirling disconcertingly above Draco, and it didn’t help matters in the slightest. “It’s not everyday they see their hero playing with a Death Eater’s hair.”

Potter frowned, and the hand that was in Draco’s hair froze. “You’re not a Death Eater.”

Draco scoffed. “Most people would disagree.”

The hand resumed its stroking.

“They’re wrong.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” Draco said, closing his eyes again.

“That’s the second time you’ve called me sweet,” Potter’s voice said, sounding both smug and bewildered.

“And I can do it a third, watch. You’re sweet, Potter.”

“You’re drunk, Malfoy.”

Draco cracked an eye open and smirked. “So are you.”

“Well yeah,” sputtered Potter, “But you’re _more_ drunk.”

“Merlin, do you ever stop being competitive? It’s tiring.”

“You’re more competitive than me.”

“I resent that.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true,” Potter began saying before going, “Malfoy?”

For Draco had suddenly made an _ugggnfff_ noise and rolled over onto his side, knocking Potter’s hand away. When his body lurched violently the second time, Draco began panicking and sat up quickly, ignoring the fiercely spinning room.

“Malfoy?”

Draco stood and, ignoring Potter, began going as quickly as he could to the bathroom ( _eighth year perks!_ his mind supplied inanely). He pushed the door open with a bang and stumbled to the closest stall; he’d barely gotten to the toilet before he began vomiting uncontrollably.

He hardly registered the sound of footsteps coming up behind him. It was only when he’d stopped long enough to lean against the dirty stall and pant that he saw Potter kneeling beside him, his blurry face etched with worry. Draco gave a weak chuckle and closed his eyes, his head pounding and the taste of vomit strong in his mouth.

“Malfoy?”

“Don’t worry,” said Draco, only half-aware of what he was saying, “I’m used to it, remember?”

He saw Potter’s face harden.

“I’m very talented at sicking up. Although,” Draco continued despite knowing very well that he should stop, “I have to say I prefer doing it myself. Or rather, making the choice myself. _This_ was all very sudden and I don’t fancy vomiting all over myself in front of –“

“Malfoy, stop it!”

Draco tried his hardest to meet Potter’s eyes, but the world was still spinning and there might have been two Potters in front of Draco right now.

“Why?” he challenged, suddenly annoyed. “If I can’t joke about it, what the fuck else am I supposed to do?”

“Get help!” Potter nearly bellowed, throwing an arm out angrily. Draco’s head throbbed. “Talk about it seriously to someone! It doesn’t even have to be me, it could be bloody Parkinson or Greengrass or your mother – just –“

“No thanks,” Draco said, cutting Potter off and slumping further against the stall wall. “Would _you_ like to discuss all your emotional _baggage_ and _trauma_ and have people look at you with pity because they can’t do anything else? Because they can’t even begin to understand and the best they can do is say ‘I’m sorry’? Because I’d really rather not, but you’re welcome to. By all means, Potter, go ahead.”

He put effort into saying Potter’s name as nastily as possible, finding it easier than he would’ve liked to slip into his old childhood persona, and it paid off; Potter flinched and withdrew from Draco an inch. But then Potter gritted his teeth and leaned forward again, glaring at Draco with those bright green eyes.

“You can’t keep this up, Malfoy. We both know that. You’re _killing yourself_ ,” Potter growled.

Draco let out an empty laugh. “And what if that’s what I want?”

Potter was looking at him intensely, studying him so carefully that Draco thought he might’ve started using Legilimency next.

“You don’t,” Potter said firmly. “I know you don’t.”

Draco opened his mouth to say something, but his brain wasn’t cooperating with him and he clamped it shut. He hated the way Potter was looking at him; he felt so vulnerable it terrified him, feeling like his every secret was at risk of being divulged. Draco glanced away and was met with the sight of the toilet he’d just finished puking into. He grimaced and looked down at his lap, but that didn’t help either. At some point, he must’ve rolled up his sleeves, and now the Dark Mark was staring up at him, faded and red but still very much there.

He was hit with a wave of self-loathing, a hatred for himself that was so visceral that Draco felt sick with it. He pushed his sleeves down with more force than necessary.

“I died, you know,” Potter suddenly said, his voice breaking the tense silence. Draco tore his gaze away from the tiled floor and glanced up at him, dumbfounded. But Potter wasn’t looking at Draco; he was staring down at his own hands, curled into fists. “When Voldemort…in the forest, he killed me. Like proper killed me. And I had a choice, to either move on or come back. And, y’know Malfoy, I really thought about going. It would’ve been so easy, so painless…”

Draco hardly dared to breathe, and he suddenly wished he was sober for this.

“But I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

And with horror, Draco realized that Potter’s eyes were wet. He froze and stared wide-eyed at him, too shocked to do anything else.

Potter rubbed at his eyes roughly, wiping the unshed tears away, but didn’t comment on it otherwise.

“Potter…I…”

And then he finally turned to look at Draco, his mouth set in a hard frown. “What was it you were saying? People looking at you with pity and not being able to say anything cos they don’t understand? Seems like you’re doing it now, Malfoy.”

“I – “ Draco said stupidly before shutting up.

Potter chuckled shortly, the noise sounding all wrong to Draco’s ears. He was looking away again, his eyes unseeing.

“I’ve never told anyone that, you know. Ron and Hermione know bits and pieces of it, but they don’t know…that part.”

Draco struggled with this information. “Why me?”

Potter frowned, then paused. “I don’t know. You’re – you’re Malfoy.”

“Ah,” said Draco, as if it made sense. “Of course.”

Potter made an exasperated noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. Then he finally sat back against the wall and uncomfortably close to Draco with their arms nearly touching. Draco remembered how he’d been lying in Potter’s lap maybe fifteen minutes ago and wished he hadn’t ruined it by having to go vomit. He liked _that_ much better than all this tense business.

“You’re not going to treat me any differently,” Potter explained, apparently unaware of how awkward Draco felt. “Like I’m a different person, or need to be handled delicately, or – or like I’m going to have a mental breakdown any minute.”

“Oh.”

He supposed that was fair, but it still…why did it leave Draco feeling disappointed?

And that, Draco thought, was his cue to go to bed. Slowly, shakily, he stood up, using the stall wall as support. Potter mimicked him, brushing off his Muggle trousers.

The world was still spinning, albeit less so now, and all Draco really wanted was to lie down. He felt like absolute rubbish; his entire body was aching and he knew that he would only feel worse tomorrow morning, which didn’t improve his already low spirits.

“You need help, Malfoy?”

“No,” snapped Draco. And then, feeling bad, he grumbled, “Thanks.”

The two of them departed the bathroom (there was hardly anyone in the common room, and the few that were didn’t seem to notice them, thank Merlin) and trudged up the spiral staircase. They got to Draco’s room first, and they both paused in front of his door.

“Well, Potter,” Draco began, disliking the way Potter was avoiding his gaze, but pushing forward anyway, “This has surely been something.”

“Er, yeah,” Potter said. He sounded tired – exhausted. When he looked Draco in the eye, he frowned, which was _definitely_ what Draco wanted to see. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Malfoy.”

Draco nodded. “Right.”

“G’night,” Potter said. He paused and cocked his head just a bit. “Draco.”

And really, all Draco could do was watch dumbly as Potter climbed the rest of the steps and disappeared around the corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accidentally revealing that you're used to throwing up while drunk >>>>>>>


End file.
